261/365

every time is a gamble
and succumbing to the dare.
laying down a word at a time
to build a cobble stone street
winding through the dark damp night.

the gentle quiet whir
of a saturday night after
a feral friday.

the plum was average
sour and cold,
so i had a second one
just in case my luck
might change.

everything is a disappointment
for those if you expecting
anything more.

covered the spread again.
no one know where
they come from,
but it’s enough to know
they are infinite.